


For Honor's Sake

by coaldustcanary



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M, First Time, Sexual Content, community: asoiaf_exchange
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-26
Updated: 2010-12-26
Packaged: 2017-10-14 03:24:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/144816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coaldustcanary/pseuds/coaldustcanary
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jaime helps Brienne discover that even honorable oaths have wiggle room, among other lessons.</p>
            </blockquote>





	For Honor's Sake

**Author's Note:**

> Jaime POV. Set post-A Feast For Crows.
> 
> Written for LJ user mathia for the Winter 2010 Valar Dohaeris Fandom exchange (asoiaf_exchange).

Travel through the Mountains of the Moon was perilous even during the summer, when the mountain clans would slither down from their refuges and ambush travelers, highborn and smallfolk alike, on the eastern road. Even after the onset of the cold and bitter snows, the warrior clans were no less active, and the traitorous road itself could turn a horse’s leg or trip up a man to his death amid hard-packed earth and stone. The sun, high in the pale gray sky, made the trip no easier; light reflecting from the swaths of snow and glittering sheets of ice spread thick over rocks was nearly blinding. They traveled slowly, and cautiously; enough armed men might make the mountain clans pause, but winter took no notice of numbers, nor did it take count of swords. Winter railed with full force, and winds hissed with snow against the mounted troop slowly inching toward the Gates of the Moon.

Jaime looped the reins of his mount over the stump of his arm, freeing his gloved hand to reach to adjust the weight of the heavy cloak draping his shoulders, hissing a little at the knife of cold that slipped in the gap of fabric on his chest until he re-fastened it. He had become skilled enough at the motion, over the course of the journey. All the while, he kept his eyes glued to the road ahead, searching for places where his stallion’s hoof might be put wrong. That, too, was practiced. This winter had come upon them unlike any in living memory, and perhaps not even in the ancient books of the Maesters, and the moonturns of bitter cold had been instructive in ways that the brief winters of his childhood had never approached. _I suppose it is a small mercy that remaining fingers have not frozen as stiff and useless as the golden ones. I may not be able to say as much for my toes, let alone my arse. Damn you to every possible hell, Littlefinger. All of the cold ones, especially._

The men behind him, good, reliable Lannister veterans all, were silent. No grumbling, or at least, they said nothing where he could hear. They were loyal, and perhaps a few of them understood the importance of their journey. Chaos had engulfed the kingdom, and with the Tyrells at open war with the Faith’s little sparrows, the situation teetered dangerously even after they had freed precious Margaery…and Cersei. _Sweet sister_. Her time in the cells had broken her, and with her support eroded and sickness wasting her when she was rescued, it had not been difficult to send her back to Casterly Rock under the care of three Maesters, and several sturdy servingwomen who could tend her in her fits and fever. Kevan had returned to serve as Tommen’s hand – and that was the only reason he was here, and not with his son. Kevan could keep her under control, at least for the time being. But they would need Littlefinger to set the realm back on some semblance of financial order, through his connections with the Iron Bank. Precautions needed to be taken. He had seen the gleam in Cersei’s eye, and it was not fever, not all of it. She was broken, but not yet ready to give up entirely on her lust for power.

She had, however, apparently given up on her lust for Jaime. He found his own desire more and more difficult to locate when he thought of her. The mantra of Kettleblacks and Lancel and even Moon Boy had begun it, but her haggard desperation and sickness steeled him further. Lost in his own thoughts and all sounds muted muted howl of the wind, the voice at his ear caused him to jerk his head up with a small start.

“Ser, there’s someone just ahead,” Willam reported gruffly, muffled through a thin, red scarf across his face. Jaime narrowed his eyes against the glare, and saw it himself – the dark shape of a horse, and the smaller one of a bulky figure leading it, walking. _Walking, in this. Mad, or desperate._ They had passed travelers only once in the past week of journey – a group of tradesmen making the risky trip to the Vale with heavy wagons of supplies for the forthcoming nuptials, with a dozen hired guards. Even that was a calculated risk. But one man, alone, could not hope to make the journey. Somehow this one had, at least thus far.

“Be alert. It could be some kind of trap, even if seems a bit out of style for the mountain clans,” he warned, trusting the men to pass word down the line as they gained ground on the slow, single figure. Jaime saw a shield, but it was slung on the horse with straps out, so he had no clues as to the stranger’s identity. His clothes were heavy furs over nondescript armor, a hat, scarf, and half-helm. The horse was dark and sturdy, but it limped, explaining the dismounted rider. _He’ll save his horse, and lose his feet to the cold._ Within a stone’s throw of the figure, they were heard, finally, the wind no longer muffling the clomp of hooves and the jingle of mail. The man stopped short, suddenly, whirling to look back at the approaching troop, and fumbling for the sword at his hip with gloved hands, pulling it free to hold defensively as his horse stumbled to a stop, its head drooping.

“Lower your blade, man. Don’t be a fool,” Willam barked at the stranger, pulling the scarf from his face as they continued to approach. Jaime spurred his horse forward, and the surprised stallion shouldered Willam’s mount out of the way, the guardsman shouting his surprise at the beast staggered. Jaime paid him no mind. He recognized that blade. _Gods be good, it can’t possibly…_ He was off the horse in a flash, swinging his leg over the startled animal’s neck and sliding to his feet, ignoring the rush of sharp pain as he hit the ground. He reached forward and tore at the scarf the stranger wore tightly wound. There was no resistance, and the blade slowly lowered as he succeeded in pulling the scarf free, the ends tugged fitfully by the wind.

“Wench,” he growled hoarsely. _Lady Brienne._ Her face was a ruin. One cheek was ragged, missing gouged chunks of flesh, while the other was raw with frostbite. Her eyes were the same, as blue as ever, but widened with shock. Her lips were cracked and bleeding with cold as she parted them, vapor escaping in a rush of breath that rattled in her throat. Jaime noticed, then, the purple-red, twisting scar on her throat, as well.

“Jaime. What…why are you _here_?” There was an almost plaintive note to her voice, despite the ruin done to it by the damage to her throat. But that disappeared, as she pressed her thin lips together, her hand tightening on the hilt of Oathkeeper. “No. You heard. She’s here. I’m going to keep her safe. I swore it.”

“What are you talking about, woman?” he growled, clutching the front of her fur cloak with his hand, pulling her closer, eyeing the prominent scarring on her cheek with a glower. “What happened to your bloody _face_?” She stumbled forward, freeing her hand from the sword’s hilt to fly to his own shoulder to steady herself, meeting his gaze squarely, a hardness in those flower-blue eyes that made him suddenly uncomfortable. The guardsmen were gawking openly at the exchange, utterly lost. Brienne only tightened her grip, so that he felt it even through the furs and mail.

“Ser Jaime, you sent me on a quest. I am fulfilling my vows before all else,” she rasped, punctuating the pronouncement with a fit of coughing, color from the force of it rising even in her cheeks. She turned her head, looking down the road. “I need to get to the Vale, to the Gates of the Moon.”

“Not on foot.” He turned to Willam. “Bring the horse along. She rides with us.” A loyal man, he did not argue. Jaime looked back to Brienne and tugged her forward, and she did not resist. “My horse, _my lady_. Can you feel your feet enough to mount behind me, or do I needs drape you across his rump as baggage?” He pulled himself into the saddle with some labor, not waiting on her reply, and reached down with his good arm, the reins once again looped over his useless stump. The stallion was trained well enough, and he sidled only a little under the weight of a second rider as Brienne gripped his arm and clambered up awkwardly behind him, a hiss of pain escaping her lips, the sound of it sharp in his ear. “I can’t keep saving you like this, wench. I have my reputation to think of.”

“Kingslayer.” The rasp was loud, suddenly, her breath hot on his ear as she leaned forward, her fur-wrapped warmth pressed against his back. Her voice was full of reproach, and the title was enough to remind him that he had no reputation to defend. “Jaime. Don’t make mock. She’s here. With Littlefinger.” Jaime reached back with his good hand, clutching her leg tightly, a warning against speaking too much in front of the men.

“Enough. We can’t ride on much longer, anyway. You can tell me all about it. Including what happened to your face. And what in the name of the gods you’re doing out here by yourself. The be-damned moon men won’t care a whit for that paper I gave you.” He nudged his horse forward, and the company began its slow progress. As they rode, she pressed herself against his back, and he could not help but be glad of the warmth. She remained so still, and so silent, that only the warm pressure of her body against his and soft rasp of her breath kept him aware she had not frozen. He kept his good hand on the reins and steered the horse carefully, mind racing. _Sansa Stark, with Littlefinger?_ It made no sense…but yet little enough of Petyr Baelish did. This would only make his task more complicated. _This is not likely to be the wedding that Baelish expected._ He longed, suddenly, to drop his hand to Brienne’s thigh once again, though her body fit tight against his back was reminder enough of her presence. Her stillness was discomfiting, but he had to keep his hand on the rein.

“How long have you been afoot?” he asked suddenly. When Brienne started, he realized she must be half-asleep with exhaustion. She straightened, carefully, trying not to unbalance the horse.

“She came up lame two days ago. I walked and rode some yesterday. Today, only walking. There was nothing to do but keep going. Either I have been lucky, or the mountain clans don’t go hunting in this weather, either.” He listened to the croak of her voice with an almost horrified fascination. It put him in mind of Ilyn Payne’s guttural sounds and clacking, and he shuddered.

“You have remarkable talent for survival, wench.” It was all he said before falling silent as they made what distance they could. As the evening approached, the winds howled less, and the snows abated; it was too cold for snow. The chill had indeed deepened, but without the wind, it was almost bearable, until he looked over at Willam as the sky truly began to dim. “We need to make camp, soon.” Behind him, Brienne stirred again, her voice muddled with exhaustion. Perhaps she _had_ slept.

“A shepherd, earlier, told me there were caves, not far off the road, that I would come across by nightfall even at my walking pace. We must be close by now.”

“I like the idea of shelter besides my pavilion walls.” Jaime turned to Willam. “Keep an eye out. Send Markys and Jon to range ahead a bit, and see what they find. Hopefully the shepherd was no liar or bandit. We could all use respite from the wind, if we can.” It took them little time to return, trotting their horses carefully along the edge of the trail, reporting a small nest of caves ahead, within sight of the road. Apparently, there was at least one honest man left in Westeros. Jaime spurred his horse on, and the whole company picked up speed, eager to be out of the cold. When they sighted the caves, once they had cleared the last foothill in their path, Jaime found himself taken aback. _That’s no cave. That’s a damned hall of stone._ Indeed, the cavern was large. A natural fissure had been widened by the work of men, evened, and rounded into a doorway. Large pillars of stone guarded either side of the entrance.

“He said they were once a holy place of the mountain tribes, but they abandoned it long ago.” Brienne’s hand squeezed his upper arm. “Local travelers use it as a waypoint, now. It’s taboo for the clans to come here, now, so it’s relatively safe. I do not think they would make an exception even for you.”

“Unless some bear has taken up residence. I would like a great monster of a bear even less than a pack of mountain savages. I believe, like the Starks, they hold a familial grudge.” He grunted as he swung a leg over his horse’s neck to dismount once again. “Make sure it’s unoccupied, Willam. No surprises.” As the captain took several of his men into the cave on foot, he turned to Brienne, who clutched the cantle of the saddle so as not to pitch forward. “Get down, wench. Mind your feet. Mind all of you, really.”

“I am not helpless, ser,” she said, wounded dignity clear in the tilt of her chin and the set of her eyes. She slid off the horse’s rump to the ground in a relatively smooth motion, a hand reaching to settle Oathkeeper at her side, a habitual, reassuring gesture. He followed the motion of her hand with his gaze, his face impassive, before looking again to her face, his voice sober.

“No, clearly you are not, my lady.” She parted her lips, as if to respond, but before she could offer a word, the captain had returned.

“Jon’s our best tracker, ser, and he sees no sign or spoor of any creatures taking residence. It’s safe enough, he says.” Jaime nodded, turning away from the unsettling intensity of Brienne’s gaze to Willam.

“Good man. Set guards and picket the horses.” He hauled his own pack from his mount, shouldering it. “I will be seeing to my lady’s frost-eaten extremities,” he said dryly, his smile a crooked cut across his wind-reddened face as he reached with his good hand to take Brienne by the forearm. “She and I have already lost enough flesh, it seems, I would hate to see her lose any more. I needs must keep her warm.” She did not resist as he pulled her along behind him, and Willam was too taken aback even to manage a guffaw at her expense.

“Ser, you shame me,” she rasped softly. “And yourself. There is no call for such words. They will think… You suggest things untoward with your mockery.” She fell silent for a few steps, not resisting as he led her into the cave. “I might be blushing. I confess I can’t feel much of my face even when it isn’t so cold, so I don’t know for certain.” He laughed at that, in spite of himself.

“You are, I think, beyond blushing, wench. What happened to your face?” The walls of the cave were covered in markings – carvings, faded paintings, and even stains that must be blood – black and crusted. As they moved to the back of the cave, the light from the entrance dimmed, and they were cast in shadow. The cave narrowed, and then opened up into a larger alcove, where what looked like an altar, cracked and broken, stood against one wall. It, too, was covered with old, faded remains of blood, though, thankfully, no bones or flesh, despite the mountain clans’ predilections for such trophies. Brienne settled her own pack down as she looked around wonderingly at the ominous markings.

“First, dry clothing. Do you have some? If not, I can find you some, I’m sure.” She shook her head at the offer, gesturing to her small pack.

“Change then. Your modesty is safe, I swear.” He turned away and peeled off his cloak, piece-by-piece removing the limited armor he wore to get at the damp clothing beneath. As he worked, changing into dry, if not fresh, clothing, he resisted the sudden and disarming urge to look behind him at the woman doing the same. He wondered if Brienne was trying to glimpse him in only his underclothes, and snorted at himself for thinking it.

He knelt, and began removing items from his packs. They could have privacy from the men, of a sort. He silently held out a blanket to Brienne, and she took it wordlessly, wrapping it about her like a cloak.

“Biter. He is dead, now.” It is all she needed to say, and he nodded.

“Indeed, and did he do for your neck as well?” He eyed her throat. Even in the dim light from the entrance of the cave, and the flickers of dim campfires being created by his men, the scar was unmistakable. “That is from a noose.”

“Yes, it is from a noose. It wasn’t Biter’s doing.” She paused. “The Starks bear you more ill will than you know, Jaime. It was Catelyn Stark. She lives, in a manner of speaking,” she said, her broken voice heavy with sorrow. He turned to her abruptly, the skin of wine dropping from his hand, luckily before he had pulled the stopper free to take a swig and offer it to her.

“You cannot be serious. The Freys killed her. They were quite certain of it, and there were many witnesses to that particular horror.” Even as he denied it, she shook her head slowly.

“She lives. Some part of her lives. As Thoros raised Beric Dondarrion from the dead, Beric in turn brought life to Catelyn. Dondarrion is truly dead now, but Lady Stark lives. She is Lady Stoneheart, now. She…” Brienne trailed off as one of the Lannister men approached carrying a load of scrubby wood and wet brush scavenged to build a fire. It was one of the few things Jaime enjoyed as a privilege of rank – his own fire. He was glad for it now, and their privacy. Nodding his thanks to the man, he waved him away before he could set about building the fire. “Leave us, unless we are attacked. Make sure we’re not disturbed unless it’s a score of local wild men annoyed by our intrusion. Make that two score. Or a bear. Especially a bear.” As the man returned to the front of the cave, Jaime turned again to Brienne in the near dark.

“My lady, would you do me the honor of striking flint and building the fire? I’ve mastered plenty with just one hand, but this task is simpler with two.” She slowly lowered herself to one knee beside him, crouching over the pile of tinder and setting aside her helm on the rock floor of the cave. Jaime noted the scar ran well around her neck, and his hand tightened into a fist briefly before it snaked out to grab her arm and pull her closer. “Your tales are difficult to believe, wench,” he said, his voice pitched low, his breath stirring the short-cropped pale hair curling around her ears. “If it was anyone else, I would not believe. You…I half-believe.” She jerked her arm free of his grasp, and struck the flint, silently tending the fire, lending her raspy breath to fan the sparks into sputtering flames as the reluctantly ate at damp wood. The light illuminated her raw face, and her eyes glittered as she turned to look at him.

“Believe. She hung us as traitors…because I would not agree to kill you.” Her voice was agonized. Jaime closed his eyes, settling back on his heels with a broken-sounding laugh.

“Next time, say you will, you foolish woman.” _This is a farce. My life is a mummer’s play._ Her next words surprised him, but only a little.

“I did, in the end. I had to. If it was just my life…but…but my squire, and Ser Hyle, they were innocent. I could not let them die.” She paused, the blue of her eyes as remote as the ice atop the mountain they sheltered within. “I have sworn an oath to kill you, ser. But first, I have another oath to fulfill. Lady Sansa’s safety comes first. I…I confess I do not think I will be able to fulfill the oath Lady Sta…Lady Stoneheart demanded of me, but I can at least manage the one you asked of me.” He looked at her, mouth slightly agape, before he stood suddenly, and executed a bow.

“My lady, will you spar with me, then? The room is small, and the day has been long, but if you are to kill me when the time comes, you ought to practice.” He did not draw his sword, but rested his hand on the pommel. His left had calluses on it, now, but he was still clumsier than he ought to be. Ilyn Payne could still put him on his arse more than half the time. He had no doubt that Brienne could as well. She was not a great swordswoman, but she had skill. She could kill him, unless he was lucky. She had to know. “I think you will find me not the opponent I once was. It should not be so hard to fulfill your oaths.” He smiled in the dim light, shrugging out of his fur cloak. Within the cave, the lack of wind and the slowly smoldering fire’s minor warmth made it unnecessary. Brienne rose to her feet as well.

“Jaime, no. I can’t. I…” She trailed off. “I will not. It is my choice, and I will keep my oaths in my way.” She took a step closer, though Oathkeeper remained on her hip, her hands well away from its hilt. Instead her hands found his shoulders, and she held him at arm’s length thus, in silence for a long time. With an almost hesitant motion, he brushed the back of his hand against the raw wounds on her cheek.

“Brienne, the world knows well the state of my honor, and the broken oaths scattered in my past. I keep the ones I can, now, but you will not rest so easily in my place. I know you, lady,” he chided her.

“I didn’t fear for my honor in those last moments, Jaime. I feared for Pod, and for Hyle. To say it, to accept the choice she forced on me was the worst thing I have ever done, but the thing I had to do, too. But when I heard…when I heard this rumor, I thought…maybe the Mother was offering me a chance.” As she spoke, an intense, earnest look came over her face. Jaime had seen a similar devotion before on Lancel’s face as he sought salvation in a sept, wearing a hair shirt and hoping for a chance for redemption. Her doom might be coming, she might see it clearly, but Brienne saw a way out. “A very slim chance, I know – that is, I don’t know what I will be able to do to save her – but if I can return Sansa to her mother, perhaps she will release me from the oath. And if I die trying, that will be worth doing, rescuing her.”

“Wench,” Jaime growled softly. “I would really prefer that you not do anything so stupid as dying.” And because the look on her face, the surprise writ naked there, pleased him so much, he slipped his hand round to the back of her neck and leaned forward to kiss her. It was neither beautiful nor tender – her lips were cracked and raw from the cold, and his were not much better. She inhaled, shocked into rigid wariness as his lips pressed full against her own and his tongue moistened her lower lip with a soft but persistent touch before he pressed on into her mouth. She did not taste of wine. He almost laughed, but it would be the worst thing he could do, he knew that much. Her hands tightened on his shoulders as she leaned closer, tilting her head slightly, hesitantly touching her tongue to his within her own mouth, then suddenly pushing herself hard against him with a strangled little cry. The kiss was briefly a struggle of sorts before she pulled back, her breath ragged, her blue eyes clouded with doubt and want, both. The look was a challenge of its own – a demand that he explain himself, that he justify what he had just done. It was not a look he had seen often in a woman’s eyes – Cersei always knew what was her due.

“My lady,” he said quietly. “I did say that I would keep you warm, after all.” There was amusement writ on his face, in his smile, he could not help that by forcing a sobriety he did not feel, even if she might misunderstand. _This is beyond foolishness. She is scarred almost as badly as the Hound on top of already being no prize and likely a maid but…I want this. I want her._ His body wanted her, of that he had little doubt. Still, his cock had betrayed him before. This was different.

“Why?” The question was so innocent he had to stifle the urge to laugh out loud once again. Her hands had slipped from his shoulders to his neck. They were calloused and a little cool as her fingers slipped through the close-cut hair on the nape of his neck, her palm stroking the roughness of his short, ragged beard. He did grin, though, and she began to pull her hands away, her expression wary. He shook his head.

“Because…because you remind me of many things, things that I too often forget. That, and I want to. And because you are cold, and it is better to be warm.” His own hand moved over her neck, her face, and traced her hairline. She kept her silence for a time, as if weighing something. Whether it was his words, or her own judgments, it took a little while, during which only her thumb moved, stroking his jaw. The rest of her was still, and he kept his impatience well in check, only maintaining his own minor contact with her raw skin. He wanted, he did, but convincing her with sincerity over a rush of passion seemed suddenly important. And so when Jaime found himself driven back, and hard, against the wall of the cave by her sudden rush, he was not entirely prepared.

There was nothing practiced or skilled about Brienne’s touch or her kiss, but her mouth pressed against his like she needed his breath to breathe herself. He grunted a little at the impact of the rock against his shoulders, and tightened his maimed arm in the small of her back, pressing her hips squarely against his own. Her responding gasp was particularly satisfying, and it freed his mouth enough to resume grinning. _I am an idiot. A fool. My face probably looks more ridiculous than hers._

“Better to be warm,” she echoed quietly, and with a sudden show of modesty, she pressed her face into his neck. Her breath was warm, and so was her mouth as she placed a chaste kiss below his ear. Gently, he pushed her away, and she looked very confused until he then pulled her down, onto the blanket she had just discarded to the stone floor. It was a strange feeling, to press the full length of his body against hers. The body he had so often seen covered in mail or held rigidly aloof was still that of a woman and though her sighs were rough-edged, she responded to his touch with soft noises of pleasure.

“Quiet,” he murmured in her ear as his hand slipped into her shirt, sliding along her ribs to cup a small breast in his palm. The noise she made was more growl than anything, but it seemed to inspire her to more boldness, her own hands stroking his back, his side, and even venturing beneath his shirt as well. They were uncertain, even hesitant, but thoughtful. There was an intentness in her eyes, slit against the firelight, as she studied his face while they touched one another and kissed intermittently, like children playing their first games of exploration with one another. He forced himself to patience. It had been a long time since he had been with any woman. It was embarrassing enough to fumble with only his left hand. He suddenly felt a frustration as he unconsciously reached to touch her face with fingers that were not there. Even now, it still happened. He slammed his forearm down to the blankets as he realized it, and before her surprise could register to pity his left hand was working at the front of her breeches. It was a strange thing to undo on another, even awkward, but when she shyly moved to help he pressed down on her and kissed her until she was gasping. And yes, there. _There._ His hand slipped inside her smallclothes, finally, finding soft hair, and damp, warm flesh. He leaned on his forearm and explored between her thighs almost lazily with a smirk.

“Warm enough already, I see. Do you really need me, after all?” Her head fell back with a cry when his fingers pressed lower, and inside her, just the slightest bit. Her thighs parted further and her breath came in soft, ragged gasps as his fingers kept up their wanderings, the pressure slowly becoming firmer. Her skin was flushed red, and even the scar on her cheek had taken on a darker, ruddy tone. He wished again, impotently, for his other hand, to touch her hair, her breasts, her lips, parted and moistened by his own tongue. Well, he would have to settle for the lips between her legs. He pinched her flesh gently, and then muttered a curse at her whimper, leaning in to muffle it with his mouth.

“I want…” she said softly into his mouth. “I want.” She fumbled about for words, but she plainly could not seem to find them. _A maid isn’t sure what she wants, only that she wants it._ She almost appeared lost, her eyes glazed over as she gazed up at him.

“Quieter,” he warned again, softly. “Hush. They will hear you.” Even as he said it, the motions of his fingers became more firm, more precise, rubbing inexorably at her damp flesh. Brienne was dazed, sweat dampening the curl of her hair against her cheek. “You’ll have it,” he murmured against her ear. “I promise.” His cock was hard against her hip. He wondered if she even noticed.

“Want you,” she sighed plaintively, the rough edge of her voice swallowed up in a soft moan as she pulled at his shoulder with her hand, his shirt balled in her fist as she lifted her hips up into his hand. “Jaime.” If she had not noticed the pressure of his cock against her before, she must now, as her soft words made him even harder, somehow.

“I said quiet, wench,” he growled in her ear, and as she lifted her hips up yet again, she shuddered, her whole body jerking against him in a spasm, her eyes wide with something akin to shock as she found her pleasure, collapsed limply, muscles still quivering, her breath coming rapidly. She was quiet, though. He had to give her credit. He kissed her chin, and her cheek, rubbing his beard along her jaw, chuckling a little as it caused her to shudder anew.

“Jaime…I…” Brienne lifted her hands into his hair, and they moved across his body as he lay on his side against her, slowly, hesitantly, but with purpose, even if she wasn’t sure of it. “I don’t know…” she trailed off, even as her fingers firmly traced the line of his cock through his breeches and he his whole frame stiffened as he pressed into her hand.

“Carefully,” he warned her with a little growl. “It’s not quite as hard as your valyrian steel , and can withstand rather less abuse.” That startled her into a rasping laugh, her touch still uncertain, but pleasant all the same. Jaime’s eyes closed as she continued, murmuring encouragement as she fumbled with the laces so as to actually touch flesh. He hissed only a little when she did – her hands were still not entirely warm enough, but that was soon remedied by their presence well inside his breeches.

“If I am, in truth, sleeping myself to death in a snowbank, having collapsed of exhaustion and enjoying delirious fever dreams in my final hours, that will be unfortunate,” she said, her fingers circling his manhood and stroking its length with a look of endearing puzzlement, a strange expression on her ravaged features.

“I promise, this is real. If it was a dream, you would already have your tongue doing that, and I would have my right hand, so I could do this properly.” She looked away, caught between embarrassment and pity for a moment, and he cupped her cheek with his hand, his smile sad for a long moment before he could speak again.

“This would be easier if you had skirts. And that’s the last time you’ll hear me say that.” He rolled to his knees suddenly, pulling his cock away from her ministrations, and set about divesting her of her breeches, dragging his fingers over her thighs as they were freed from cover, gooseflesh rising wherever he did not touch, from the cold. He pulled her down atop him, and then, awkwardly, pulled a blanket over them both, even as his cock prodded at her thighs as she found herself straddling him, her palms both resting flat against his chest.

“You have me at a disadvantage,” he admitted, slipping his hand beneath the blanket to touch her bare thighs and squeeze her leg. “Less balance with one hand. I rather prefer you thus,” he said with a groan, pulling forward on her thigh so the wetness between her legs was settled nearer his rigid member.

“You were, after all, deprived of your mount unjustly. I will do my best to serve,” he continued with a cutting, dry laugh, though he choked it off as she stroked him again, lifting herself away from him only to lower herself onto his cock with agonizing slowness, her breath sucked in on a gasp and her eyes closed tightly. With her lips parted, and her face slightly upturned, she stilled when she had settled down fully on his cock, flesh against flesh. Beneath the blanket his fingers stroked her thigh, her belly, even as he held himself still against the urge to buck his hips up into her without restraint. She was hot, and wet, and it was shocking, blindingly so, after the cold. She _burned_ , hotter than the fire only just beyond arm’s reach. He groaned a little and did press up into her, eliciting a gasp and a shudder as she hunched forward a little, bracing herself against his chest. He moved again, his cock sliding partially out of her and back in, and her breath hitched with every movement. His hand sought her hip, steadying her against his thrusts, and she fell even more forward, her arms braced on either side of his shoulder, her ragged breathing warm against his cheek.

“A better ride?” he suggested. Her thighs tightened on either side of him in response, and she rocked her hips back down hard against his own, her lips parted, her face alight with wonder in the flickering firelight. His eyes fluttered. “I see, wench.”

“Not…with your eyes closed,” she panted, repeating the movement. He laughed, bracing his heels against the rock floor for more leverage, lifting his hips up into her with firm thrusts. Only instinct informed her response, but it was more than enough as she rocked herself on his member. A small touch of a smile lit her face from the sally, and the sight of the softness around her eyes, and the heat around his cock was enough. He grabbed her close with his arm and twisted, flipping them over so that he was atop her – a maneuver he would never be able to get away with again, probably, but at this moment, she was totally unprepared as he pulled himself free of her and, with a firm stroke of his own hand, spent himself on the blankets. He collapsed then, falling awkwardly on his good arm and leaning against Brienne’s warmth.

“My…apologies. It was very… I’ve no wish to plant a child in your belly,” he said on a rushed exhalation, raising his eyes to her face, still dreamy with a dazed sort of surprise. He felt a strangely insistent pull of pleasure as he looked at her, tunic pulled half-off, skin flushed and damp beneath with sweat, and wetness darkening the hair between her legs. A trickle of blood from her maidenhead colored the inside of her thigh as well as his softening cock, and he felt an answering, brief touch of guilt as she slowly pulled a blanket up and over them both at the chill of the air on her cooling flesh.

“That is wise. I can’t…a child would keep me from fulfilling _any_ of my oaths,” she said softly, reaching up to trace his hairline with her fingers as she pressed close to him beneath the blanket. Her fingers shook slightly. “Jaime. My thanks,” she added, quietly sincere. Though she was not entirely back to herself, and pleasure and wonder vied to show themselves the most in her features, her intent gaze was the same as she looked at him gratefully. “I still do not under…” He cut her off with a kiss, lingering and exploring the inside of her mouth with his tongue until he needed to draw breath again.

“You’re warm. And I wanted to. And I don’t entirely understand either, wench, but it pleases me. And you?” Somehow, it was a question. Her blush, once again, was all the answer he needed, and he pulled her close against him beneath the blankets.

“We ought to sleep,” Brienne murmured, though her eyes did not close, still studying him with intensity in the dying light. “Tomorrow will be more of the same, even with riding,” she said reluctantly, glancing toward the way to the rest of the cave and outside, where winter raged.

“Oh, yes,” Jaime sighed, settling himself against her comfortably. “Even the riding,” he agreed, gently stroking along her hip. The fire had gone out, but he heard her gasp as she understood his meaning.

"Jaime, that is not what I meant, and you know it," she hissed softly in his ear, her voice sobering. "I have to find her. It is my only chance." His hand paused in its motion, pressing flat against her side, feeling the tension in her frame.

"I know, Brienne. I know. We will find her. I'll have Baelish slung over the rump of a packmule all the way back to King's Landing, and you'll be able to bring Sansa to her mother. To what remains of her mother, anyway. If there's anything right of her left, her daughter will be more important than some damn meaningless vengeance against me." She was silent, in the darkness for a time, and he wondered if she slept.

"What if she doesn't?"

"Then you’ll have to come back to me, and we’ll have to find her other daughter and go from there, Brienne," he murmured slowly, as if already planning. Arya Stark was likely dead, but that did not mean they could not make the attempt. Content with that, perhaps, or more likely worn hard by exhaustion, she drifted to sleep against him.

Jaime remained awake, leaning to add more wood to the small fire as he could without jostling her awake, wondering idly what exactly had happened and, more, what he had gotten himself into. There was a part of him that was not easy with what had happened between them, caught up with memories of his twin, remembrances of his oaths, and the very impetuous nature of the decision, but it was a small thing, really, compared to the contentment that otherwise suffused mind and body. He found himself unconcerned with what the men would think on the morrow – and loyal as they were, he had little enough to fear there, either for himself or Brienne, beyond perhaps their bemused laughter. _If I understood, I would explain, but that’s well beyond my measure tonight, I’ll thank you._ He chuckled himself, glancing once more at the sleeping woman beside him before closing his eyes. _It will be tomorrow soon enough. And more than the pleasure of wiping the smirk off Littlefinger’s face rides on this journey, now._

Soon enough, he slept, dreaming of the chances the Warrior afforded honorable knights, with the Mother’s blessing.


End file.
